


In Rags At Their Feet

by mechaieh (ribbons)



Category: Thunder Road (Song)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:32:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbons/pseuds/mechaieh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened to the graduation gown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Rags At Their Feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strangecobwebs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangecobwebs/gifts).



Graduation gowns are not supposed to be cut into pieces: Mary knows she's committing some kind of sacrilege even as she reaches for the scissors. Graduation gowns are supposed to remain intact, hanging in the back of the closet with bridesmaid dresses and prom gowns until they're crowded out by wedding attire and maternity smocks, and then bundled up and dropped off at Goodwill, or donated to the community theatre, or given to the kids for dress-up. If you're going to cut up a graduation robe, it's supposed to get pieced into a memory quilt along with scraps of favorite t-shirts, and maybe a bit of a souvenir bandana from one of the Jersey beaches.

And once it's cut up, it turns out to be completely useless for housework, the sturdy polyester resisting the dust and grease and liquids it's supposed to be picking up - which is, after all, why it's used for choir robes and graduation gear to begin with, since tears can drip on it and punch get sloshed on it and boys too young to be trusted with cars, girls, booze, or really, anything at all - boys can horse around in the parking lot and still look nice in the pictures with their grandparents and parents. Nothing sticks to it long enough to show, or at least not long enough to matter. It only has to look nice for half an evening, after all.

So Mary knots together the remaining scraps, half-hysterically thinking of Rapunzel: were there no ugly dresses in the tower that the princess could have destroyed to save herself? Stupid boys. Always wanting a girl to let down her hair. Mary's no princess, and her house no castle, but she is desperately familiar with the sensation of being stranded. She keeps her makeshift rope in the trunk of her car, just in case the clunker needs to get jerry-tugged out of a ditch some day. Emergencies don't care how fancy a rope is, after all - just whether it holds on to what it's tied to.

There's an outdoor wedding where it ends up being useful - there's a strong wind, and a bungee cord snaps, which spells bad news for the amplifier it had been anchoring. Mary runs out to her car and fetches the rope, and it saves the day, although the mother of the bride shoots Mary a look that says, "You can't do better than that raggedy thing?" To her credit, Mary swallows the words she could have said to that: _Your daughter had a scholarship to Rutgers. Two months ago, your new son-in-law was shouting **my** name outside Mercy Bar and Grill at 2 a.m. every night - every night he wasn't in his back seat with some girl less of a bitch and easier to get. Your daughter should have learned how to be the kind of bitch that matters, bitch._

Nice thoughts for a wedding, yeah. Mary doesn't realize how grim her expression has become until the band takes a break and the guitarist approaches her with a concerned look, asking her if she's okay.

In response, she plasters her smile back on.

In response to _that_, he asks her if she wants to dance.

There's something about the way he holds her that feels right: not too careful but not too close. Mary orders herself to enjoy the moment as it is: she's not headed to anywhere else anytime soon. There'll be plenty of time later to obsess over what it isn't going to mean. Plenty of time when she doesn't feel the eyes of the groom on her: he's as pale as a ghost, and there's a terrible yearning in his eyes - a yearning that should not be inhabiting a man on his wedding day. Plenty of time when it'll be just Mary and the radio, turning up the volume and spinning herself around and around to stop the ceaseless churning of her mind. Plenty of time to nail herself again and again to her own regrets - the wrong turns taken, the wrong words spoken, the wrong clothes chosen -

"Time's up," the guitarist says. "Gotta get back to work."

"Okay," Mary answers. Her smile of thanks at him is real.

He calls out, "Thanks again for the rope!" as he heads back to the stage.

_That wasn't anything like a promise,_ Mary informs herself. _You didn't ask for one, and you won't. And even if you were, he's not the type of guy who would give you one._ But she finds herself enjoying the rest of the reception, since the rest of the guests mostly leave her alone, leaving her free to listen to the music and enjoy the feel of the wind ruffling her hair.

And as she's putting the rope back into her car, the bride's Aunt Patti insists that she take home one of the centerpieces as well. It's a confection of roses, baby's breath, and glossy green leaves.

The roses are the color of peaches and lemons and apples, and smell like dying leaves. Halfway home, Mary can't stand them anymore, especially once the rain starts pelting down: she stops the car, takes out the flowers, and flings them into the darkness at the edge of the town.


End file.
